


But Why Though

by Letterblade



Series: The Golden Scheme (for threesomes) [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Edelgard/Dimitri/Claude, Banter, Bondage, But Like Hate Sex With Safewords, Face Slapping, Fisting, Gags, Handwaved Golden Route, Hate Sex, Multi, Nobody Shuts Up Ever, Political Theater, Ritual Duels, Sex Toys, Spanking, Trans Claude von Riegan, Undernegotiated Kink, background Edelgard/Dorothea, endless banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24762910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: As the glimmering scarlet of the Adrestian delegation pauses at the entrance to the sunlit swath of the Almyran royal court, Queen Hilda of the Silver Axe tosses her head with a jingle of finery, turns to her dear husband, and says, for his ear only, “Butwhythough?”Edelgard's first official diplomatic visit to Almyra causes a stir. In Hilda's royal pink panties.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Series: The Golden Scheme (for threesomes) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790821
Comments: 22
Kudos: 66





	But Why Though

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustofwarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/gifts).



> So a discord conversation got out of hand and I wound up writing this as a birthday fic for [dustofwarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare). This fic also got out of hand. Takes place in the same continuity as [Should You Need Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684253), if you're wondering how the lords trio got together, but knowledge of that fic is not really super necessary, and this one's somewhat sillier. Freely borrowing a few of Dusty's Almyra-related headcanons. I'll, uh, edit this tomorrow or something, lol.

As the glimmering scarlet of the Adrestian delegation pauses at the entrance to the sunlit swath of the Almyran royal court, Queen Hilda of the Silver Axe tosses her head with a jingle of finery, turns to her dear husband, and says, for his ear only, “But _why_ though?”

Claude, bedecked in his own royal swag and ever-grateful for the glittering canopy that gives them both shade, sighs. “You know why. I’ve _told_ you why. I fixed Fódlan with her, come on. Well, Dimitri helped too.”

“Then why couldn’t _he_ be visiting. _He’s_ not obnoxious. He’s _sweet_ when he’s not ripping heads off. I bet I could even get him to carry stuff for me.”

“Yeah, he’s.” Claude stalls out for a moment. Dear _gods_. She would, too, and he’d roll with it, and hopefully they had the sense to do it in private. “Past that phase and also he should be here in a few days, schedules and sea travel, you know how it is.”

Hilda, of course, knows the schedule perfectly, along with all the diplomatic goals for this visit. But she is also Hilda, and so she sighs dramatically and gives Edelgard a searing once-over as the delegation paces down the shimmering blue mosaic that leads to the foot of their thrones. The river of the king’s generosity. It sparkles, and makes a blindingly vivid contrast to the glowing scarlet of Edelgard’s own regalia. The bright Almyran sun washes her out, especially against her red; even her lavender eyes look ghost-pale, but burning with pride and determination as always.

And a faint, private smile, nearly lost in her pale face, as she meets his gaze.

It’s been almost two years since he left Fódlan. Building his power base, winning his throne, coaxing acceptance for his foreign queen—mostly by sitting back as she kicked people’s asses and whined about breaking a sweat, which is fine diplomacy by Almyran standards. Scraping together support for the massive changes in foreign policy he’s making—and not a few changes in domestic policy either, largely in Cyril’s honor. It had been easier than his long slog in Fódlan in many ways—no allies quite as difficult to deal with as Edelgard and Dimitri, and no super-powered basement-dwelling shapeshifters either—but harder in others. Everything he’s building here needs to _last_. No setting things up and running away. His dreams, the future of international cooperation, his life, Hilda’s life. His power base needs to carry them all until he can retire and hand things over to an heir.

Adopted. It’s not like some things aren’t common knowledge here. He’s actually been able to spin it in his favor. A good way to appease the old sticks wanking away about Fódlan blood diluting the royal line. His heirs will be ‘pure Almyran,’ and Hilda can have cute babies without doing any work, which she’s down for.

He’s scraped together the time to meet Edelgard and Dimitri in obscure little safe-houses in the Throat. Nestled together against the mountain chill and fucked until none of them could move, barely even gotten out of bed for the precious days they had. But this—this is the first official visit, starting right off with a tightrope of political theater. He cannot appear inferior, cannot appear in her sway. There have been enough questions of why he’s calling for peace without that.

So Edelgard will have to deal with some things in her protocol briefing. But if she was still putting her pride above mutual success, well, they’d never have gotten this far in the first place, would they?

“Your Majesty Khalid,” she starts, crisply projecting as the court falls silent and the translator begins to echo her in Almyran, and Claude tries gamely not to think of the first time she’d called him by that name. “King of Almyra, Silver-Tongued, keeper of the headwaters and the wings of might, and Your Majesty Hilda, Queen of Almyra, of the Silver Axe. I, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, in the name of Adrestia and the Fódlan Union, come from beyond the mountains and the sea to seek you.” The heavy armor-lined cloak of her regalia—she must be dying under there, even if she’s used to Enbarr’s heat—spreads out around her in a perfect circle as she takes a knee, horn-crowned head bowed at just the exact inclination needed to show due respect. And not a degree more, of course.

“I could get used to that,” Hilda whispers, too faint to be heard beyond his ear, before Claude elbows her gently and she straightens and makes an attempt to look majestic.

“I hear you, Edelgard, and I shall offer you water upon your journey.” He answers in Almyran, an ancient formal greeting, and at his wave, one of his retinue steps forward with a bowl of clear water, bows, and offers it into her scarlet-gloved hands.

Edelgard drinks without question, still kneeling, necessary trust, and blind if it were any other. Their eyes lock over the rim of the bowl. He’s vetted every chain of the supply line, of course. Everything that might have a chance of passing her lips during her visit. Hubert, sweltering in blacks beside her, no doubt has his own precautions, but he cannot afford to be seen employing them. She must appear to place herself in Claude’s hands, as a guest would their host, and to be approaching in supplication for peace of more or less her own accord, even if that supplication is extremely welcome. The show, as her gorgeous diva of a wife would say, must go on.

It was a pity Dorothea couldn’t come, but she’s managing the real boss of the houshold, Adrestia and all her issues, back home with Ferdinand von Aegir. Such is life. At least she’d finally managed to hail the mighty Denselgard.

The show goes off perfectly. Several more rounds of formal greetings, until he finally allows her to rise, step up on the dais to enter his domain, and kiss his right palm. She plays her part perfectly, but this close, he can see her lips move. _Don’t get cocky._ The spark in her eye.

He lets his smile get a little real—all he can afford with the eyes of his court upon him.

Edelgard pays the same respect to Hilda, and Claude isn’t even sure what’s passing in that gaze, except that he half expects Hilda to surge off her throne and start the formal duels an hour early.

“ _Ugh_ ,” she breathes, once there’s a quick intermission in their performance and they can whisper between themselves in peace.

“What _is_ your problem?” Claude asks, genuinely a little surprised at _just_ how pissy she’s getting.

“She’s my _ex_ , Claude. You’re dating my ex.”

“You went on one date. One. At school. You had tea and argued about her tights. I know.” He tilts his head. “What, did you have gay feelings when she knelt and kissed your hand, Hilda?”

“I just don’t like her,” she says, sugar-sweet, and slips a hand under his own sprawling golden cape to pinch his ass while batting her eyelashes.

* * *

The next act of royal pageantry is the little dance where Edelgard says she’s here to seek an open border and Claude challenges her to a formal duel to prove she’s strong enough to be worth talking to. They’ve each dressed for the occasion, with cloaks to shed and sashes to unsash so that they can step out dramatically into the ring drawn in white sand. They each have a broad brass axe, blunted, wrought in the Almyran style—the balance is a little different, and it maybe leaves Edelgard at a bit of a disadvantage, but honestly, Claude prefers Fódlan axes too. He just does. He’s pretty sure it’s part of why he never got really good with them until Garreg Mach. The other part, of course, being Byleth Eisner.

He’s at least gotten to practice with one since.

Not that it’s a free fight. Would look a _little_ bad if he got creamed. It’s about the show of strength and skill, the equal struggle. _Make it a draw if we can, or at least a difficult win. For either of us, I can spin it either way._ He gives a dramatic spin of his axe, settling into the weight. Edelgard answers with the same.

She charges with a brisk and piercing shout, the one she uses in the training yards and not bloody war, and he meets it with a sharp grin, a slide of footwork that sends her axe sideways off his with a glorious spark.

“Test her, Khalid!” Nader bellows in Almyran, and more than a few voices take up the call in one way or another. His people calling his name, after everything—never gets old. He feels his heart trip faster, his blood heat, and comes in with a heavy upswing, a classic Almyran move he’d never seen in Fódlan. Edelgard parries it by a hair, responds with one of those devastatingly easy-looking twirls, and startled whoops ring out.

It’s fast, showy. They know each other’s styles, more or less. They can pull off close parries, dramatic rolls and flourishes. Many in the crowd will realize that this is more dance than fight, but Claude’s fine with that. Still a dance that shows her skill and power, his endurance and resourcefulness. And even Edelgard hisses out a gasp of delight as he straight-up backflips over the flat of a cross-strike, axe and all.

By the time Edelgard finally kisses his collarbone with her blunted edge, a pulled downstrike that would have cut down to his heart with a true weapon, Claude is panting, battle-heated, and more than a little turned on.

“Look down,” he says, teeth bared, and when she does, it’s with a soft hiss of surprise, even as her breath shakes her.

His own blade’s against the side of her knee. Just the kind of trap he loves.

A kill and a maim. A respectable draw for an Almyran warrior. _If you must fall, break their legs with your dying breath_ , Nader had told him once. Nader who now calls out the crippling counterstrike in Almyran. They straighten, lower their axe-heads to the sand, bow in salute as equals now that her skill has been acknowledged. Claude drags a deep breath, opens his mouth to welcome her to the court as a true guest—

“Traveler,” another voice rings out in heavily accented Almyran, echoed by the translator. “If you wish to speak, then stand and prove your worth to the crown.”

Another challenge, twin to Claude’s. The queen’s right, just as it is the king’s.

Hilda’s standing at the edge of the ring, gossamer pink layers stripped away, with the blunted silver axe that won her name in a dozen duels head-down in the white sand, elbow resting on the shaft. A slice of stomach, tight with muscle, shows below the embroidered edge of her bodice, and her bare arms shine in the sun.

Silence hangs, a few murmurs. There was only one duel scheduled. Claude feels the quick anxiety-jolt of adjusting mid-flight, but screw it. This’ll be _great_. They’re pretty well matched, it’ll send the message that the foreign queen isn’t just rolling over for her countryfolk—he can work with this. And if Hilda takes a vengeance win, that’ll have _great_ optics.

Nader bellows Hilda’s name in turn, and she tosses a grin and a wink over her shoulder at him, and then hefts her axe like a feather in one hand and pulls her favorite flowery hairpiece out with the other to hand to Claude as she passes.

“I got your flower,” Claude says with an answering grin, and cocks his axe on his shoulder to swagger out of the ring.

Edelgard drags a deep breath, forcing air and energy into her lungs, and jerks her chin up. “Queen Hilda.”

“Emperor.” She tilts her head, lets her voice drip sweet. “Do you need a break, honey?”

Claude sees one flick of uncertainty in Edelgard’s eyes as she looks his way—she’s off script, and knows the stakes of the theater involved. He gives her a tiny shrug. She squares her shoulders, steadying her breathing with remarkable control. “There are no breaks in battle.” And a quick hand gesture, the one that tells the translator that this is not to be repeated. “Much as you might wish otherwise.”

“It’s not _my_ fault some of us didn’t plan for a shitwar,” Hilda shoots back, also signaling the translator to leave it out. The poor girl, a scholarly but easily bewildered Almyran traveller who’d fetched up in Abyss before he found her on Yuri’s recommendation, looks to Claude and spreads her hands. He gives her, too, a tiny shrug. Most of the court can’t make out much, of course, but trash talk is a universal language, and the shouts are starting to come up with Hilda’s name.

 _Hubert_ shoots Claude a glance, burning in ways that can’t be shrugged away, so Claude mouthes, _I trust her_ , and hopes the man’s lip-reading can keep up. Which, well, it’s Hubert.

Edelgard lifts her axe and spins it in her hand. Hilda answers with the big swooping flourish she’s come to be famous for in the Almyran court, a casual show of strength that’s made plenty of overconfident assholes think twice about challenging her. Edelgard, of course, is only deservedly confident and sometimes an asshole, and also Claude wouldn’t know which way to bet on _those_ two arm-wrestling, and he goes to stand at the Almyran side of the ring as is appropriate until the greeting duel is finished.

Nader claps him on the shoulder. “Best laid plans, eh?” he says, in Almyran.

“But what a view,” Claude answers in kind, grinning.

Edelgard and Hilda meet with a crash and a shower of sparks.

Hilda’s not holding back much. She never does, no matter how much she Hildas, because by the time she’s picked up her axe, she’s _there_. Claude knows this. Edelgard pushes hard to meet her, harder than she had against Claude. More focused. Less showy. The court is getting excited. Nader’s watching with a little forward hunch of his shoulders, fascinated, but he always does when Hilda fights, watching for the echoes of Holst.

Claude, though—Claude’s catching the echoes of _himself_. Hilda came on strong, riling Edelgard up, but now she’s leading her. It’s subtle. Edelgard’s falling for it like she never would with him. She knows him too well. But she’s underestimating Hilda, letting herself believe that her slightly slower strokes after that first flourish and clash mean she’s all for show. Claude tries to keep his smile of glee _slightly_ under wraps.

Edelgard presses her advantage, driving Hilda close to the edge of the ring. The crowd is a wall of sound, necks craning, Almyrans hollering for their queen. Claude sees Hubert’s eyes narrow, like he’s realized the trap half a minute too late.

One pink-slippered foot lashes out, fouling Edelgard’s footwork, and she hops sideways so cat-quick that for a moment Claude thinks it won’t work, axe blurring up to retaliate—

Hilda’s blunted axe smacks into her hip hard enough to knock her over the rest of the way. Edelgard’s axe tosses her hair as she goes down, barely missing her breast and wafting a spray of pink in the wind.

“That’s,” Edelgard hisses, outrage tinting her cheeks. She’s caught herself on one elbow, nimble, but the duel was done. A clean kill, no counterstrike.

“Legal in this ring,” Hilda says with a brilliant smile. “Oh, no, I thought you’d been told.” She offers her a hand up, and Edelgard fixes her with a stare, gets a knee under her—and then remembers she’s doing diplomacy. Claude can _see_ the cool facade shutter back into place over her indignation.

“My thanks,” she says, in clipped and rote-practiced Almyran, taking Hilda’s hand.

They lower their axes, bow, and the air between them burns with something Claude is seriously starting to wonder about.

“What d’you think?” Hilda calls over to him. “Is she worth talking to?”

Claude _laughs_. “That was kind of the plan, you know.”

Hilda laughs too, bell-bright, and waves off the translator. “But _why_ though?”

* * *

There’s a tightly controlled inner circle of staff that’s allowed to know what’s actually going on, and a secret passage conveniently opened, and so half an hour after everyone finally retires from the welcoming banquet, there’s a brisk knock on the back door of the king’s chamber. Claude opens it on Edelgard, stripped down to her rumpled chemise and a pair of light trousers, hair loose and still snaking in wide waves from her buns, looking nakedly weary.

“You did great,” he says, smiling, and opens his arms.

“ _That_ ,” she says with a gut-deep sigh, “was as bad as the official armistice-signing with Faerghus.” Back when she had just started figuring out how to work in step with Dimitri, when she was swallowing pride like nails so she could accomplish more. “Maybe worse.” She butts her face into his chest. “Tell me tomorrow will be easier. Don’t lie.”

“Probably? Should be. Depends on what gets thrown at us in court, I can’t control for all of that.” He wraps her up, and for a moment she just lets him, and then takes two very demanding fistfuls of his shirt and picks her head up to kiss him with all the pent-up teeth of a control freak who’s just spent a day dancing backwards and in heels.

“Claude,” she hisses against his lips, and it really is an interesting reversal by now, isn’t it? _Khalid_ used to wreck him. Now, after a day of his official name in formal discourse, _Claude_ feels like some delicious secret spot, a little grotto where they can hide and make out. One hand moves up to his hair now, fisting tight enough to make pain spark along his scalp, holding him like she wants to shove him under her ribs and never let him go. “You had best be grateful,” she says.

It’s a little teasing. They’ve stopped keeping score for everyone’s sanity, all three of them, except for the general understanding that Claude’s got a long line of credit. Unless a debt’s paid in fun ways, of course. “Yes. Oh, yes. Thank you, you did beautifully, whatever you want is yours.” He angles his head up a little, baring his throat and the joyously thickening stripe of his beard. “I might even be a little good.”

“Don’t fake it,” Edelgard says, because Dorothea’s made her allergic to that.

He laughs softly, because after that week in Enbarr before he left Fódlan—well, he’d never consider himself broken to the saddle, never as tame as Dimitri, but mastered like a wyvern who still hisses and ever tests? Gods, yes, she’s a glorious rider. “Oh, you’ll earn it, just don’t get cocky.” He winks. “How much are you up for, what do you need?”

“Some, not a marathon.” She bites her lip. “I need _you_. Under my hand.” She tugs at his beard, enjoying the growth. “You’ll get off, though it might be on a toy or at my direction if I’m tired—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I can put on a good show—”

“Just,” she grits out, and goes for his hair again, dragging his head down hard. “ _Down._ ”

He puts up a small struggle, reflexive, but there’s wild swooping joy in his gut at the way she bears down on him, a hard spark as his knees hit the floor. She drags him, ruthless, crawling, so she can sit on the cushioned bench set into the night-curtained window. So she can hold him by the hair and throat, one in each hand, squeezing every time he bucks or rearranges himself. “I’ll go on when you put your hands behind your back,” she says, low and firm, and he smiles, loopy. It’s a trick she uses a lot, but it’s a neat trick. He can fight himself on his own time, knowing that once he’s given in, she’ll make it worth it…

The front door opens.

There’s only one person it could be, really, unless it’s an _absolute_ emergency, and sure enough, the familiar weight of Hilda’s footsteps fetches up in the doorway. Claude looks over his shoulder, Edelgard’s hand still threaded in his hair even as her grip on his throat lifts. He can _feel_ something run through Edelgard at the sight of her, some tension. But not quite as chilly as he would have expected.

“But _why_ though,” Hilda says again, and breezes towards her side of the suite.

“Hilda,” Edelgard says flatly, stopping her in her tracks. “If you are jealous, I would appreciate a direct discussion _before_ the situation grows any more absurd.”

“You mean before you fuck my husband in the next room?” She blinks innocently. “These doors are pretty thick, I probably won’t hear anything unless you can really get him going. Which I doubt a cold bitch like you can.”

Edelgard’s hand tightens in his hair and she presses one knee against his shoulder. “Then you are welcome to listen and find yourself wrong. I see you’re even worse about giving direct answers than he is.”

Claude laughs. “We get along for a reason.”

She focuses down entirely on him, ignoring Hilda like she’s furniture. “Claude, please be honest with me. Will this damage your marriage if it continues?”

“No,” he says. They’ve talked about it. For real, one of those painful late-night talks where neither of them is bullshitting. He trusts her truth. And gods, how easily would he have said _that_ two years ago? “We can handle a catfight, Princess.”

She tightens her fist in his hair at the nickname, as expected. “ _Catfight_ ,” she says dourly.

“I’m right here,” says Hilda, tossing her head.

“Do you intend to stay there?” Edelgard asks, voice shading dangerous. “If you doubt my capability, perhaps you should witness it yourself.”

“Oh, _please_ , I have better things to do than watch you posturing.”

“Girls, girls, you’re both pretty,” Claude tosses out, because sometimes he really can’t be expected to be mature.

“I’m not _pretty_ ,” Edelgard says sharply. “I inspire fear.”

“Well, _I_ am,” Hilda says, like that’s some sort of victory she can accept. “And I’m not afraid of _you_.” With that, she swans off to her private chamber.

* * *

Claude wakes up the next morning to the early bell and the sunlight trickling across the sheets, a little woozy and sore, to Hilda walking her fingertips over the scatter of bruises on his collarbone.

“Mmuh,” he says. And then focuses. It’s not often that Hilda’s up before him. “Did I sleep in, is it too late?”

“No.” She yawns theatrically. “One of the kitties needed me.” He half-expects her to give him another hickie, marking her territory, but instead she just boops his nose. “Guess we should be up soon, though. Do you need me for the big thingie this afternoon? All that stuff is so _boring._ ”

She’s on the schedule, Claude knows, which means she’ll show, because she’s like that. He stretches, nonchalant, and takes a stab at the truth. “What, so you can go wank about all the time I get to spend with her that you don’t?”

“Ugh, you wish. Just for that, I’m using your dicks and not washing them.” Which she does anyway, he knows. He’s hidden the really nice leather one for just that reason.

“Go slow and tell me all about it,” he drawls, and slides out of bed to face the day.

* * *

The day, in fact, is long. Formal tour of the palace, luncheon, court session, banquet, all punctuated by a few genuinely useful moments of diplomatic exchange and rather more rounds of his wife absolutely refusing to get off his girlfriend’s dick. And, at least once that he notices, the reverse. Edelgard’s rising to the bait, engaging—and he doesn’t know how well Hilda knows her, but _he_ does. He knows how easily she can stonewall if she actually doesn’t like something. And it’s delightful to spin politically: he’s clearly not seeking peace to appease his queen, Fódlan doesn’t own the crown, Almyra can appreciate a good rivalry, and Edelgard is coming off as neither spineless nor reckless.

Which is all to say that by the time they can all retire again, and after some truly thunderous glances at dinner, he’s not at all surprised to hear a faint moan coming from the other side of the curtain hiding the secret passage behind Edelgard’s guest room.

“…asking for it,” he hears Edelgard’s voice, low and heated. “Since the moment I got here.”

“You _wish_ ,” and that’s _definitely_ Hilda. “I just need to see if you’re all you’re talked up to be. Or if you’re just some little girl trying to compensate.”

Claude considers feeling guilty for sneaking around back here for maybe two seconds, but screw it. They know him. _Hilda_ knows him, and knows where she could have closed a passage or left a do-not-disturb note. He keeps his breathing low and shallow, slow through his nose like Leonie had taught him for stalking, and pads into the room one very careful step at a time, still hidden by the heavy curtain.

That’s definitely a smack of lips, and another whiney little groan, probably Hilda’s, muffled. He can’t imagine Edelgard’s being gentle, not with how much Hilda’s riling her up. Well, her funeral. “I’m taller than you,” Edelgard bites out.

“Yeah, well, I have bigger boobs,” says Hilda, in one of the most stunning displays of maturity Claude’s ever heard from her. And then there is the exact squeak that means somebody just grabbed them. He leans carefully against the wall, folding one hand over his grinning mouth so he doesn’t squeak himself. More breathless little noises from Hilda, then a whine like somebody’s going for her nipples.

“Wait,” he hears Edie say, and a disgruntled hiss from his lady wife, and some rustle of movement he can’t place. “No, in all seriousness, you idiot, wait, we have a—”

A steely little red-gloved hand shoots through the curtain and grabs him by the shirt-front.

Claude very deliberately gives a yelp that Edelgard would recognize, and from there it’s a blur as he’s yanked through the curtain and tossed bodily onto a sofa, laughing all the way.

“ _Claude_ ,” Hilda pouts, tossing her hair. Her lips are already bitten a bit pink, and her evening bodice is rucked down, one delicious breast spilling out. “Spying on me? Getting _caught?_ Ugh, you’re so embarrassing.”

“And what,” Edelgard says, following him right down to the sofa to pin him with one knee and her hand at his throat, “shall we do with this spy? Shall we question him?” She wrestles him around, gets him flat on his belly, laughing and kicking. “Punish him?” A hard smack to his ass, and Claude groans appreciatively.

“Don’t let me stop you, ladies. That looked like some—mmm—” Edelgard’s shoving his legs apart to grind the heel of her hand between them, sending sparks of harsh pleasure up his spine. “Important business there.”

“Does it, now? And how long had you intended to watch in secret?” She spanks him, right there between his legs, and he groans and bucks his hips. Hilda makes an appreciative noise; her familiar hand, broader than Edelgard’s, lands on his ass, and then Edelgard bats it away.

“Well,” Claude says, grinning. “That’s for me to know and you to guess.”

“Are we just too hot for you, Claude?” Hilda says. “You just can’t help yourself?”

“You never have been able to mind your own business.” Edelgard spanks him again, fingertips stinging his dick through his trousers, and he wiggles.

“We’ll just have to punish him together,” Hilda says sweetly, and Claude feels a swooping excitement. Edelgard and Dimitri teaming up on him is one thing, but _this_ …still, Hilda and Edelgard had their own thing going before they found him, hadn’t they?

“I suppose so,” Edelgard says, and there’s an edge of thoughtfulness in her voice that makes Claude wonder what _she’s_ scheming. She catches him by bicep and hair, dragging him roughly to his feet and frog-marching him to the chair near the bed. And moves it with one toe so it’s facing the bed, perfect for an audience. “Hilda, pass me that big bag.”

Of course she’d packed the _big_ bag, Claude thinks, and can’t stop grinning. Hilda, predictably, whines, and eventually deigns to slide it over. “That’s so _heavy_.”

“One must come prepared for a man this intractable,” Edelgard says, and spins him around and shoves him down to sit. She’s still in her scarlet grandeur from dinner, minus an outer layer. Still _crowned_ , and that’s quite a look.

“Really?” Hilda blinks innocently. “He’s always so nice to _me_.”

Edelgard is _so_ not going to let her get away with that, Claude thinks, watching her face. And he already has a pretty good idea of where this is going before she pulls out the thick and butter-soft leather cuffs. She’d had the set custom-made for him, because she’s an Emperor and she _can_ , a rush job for his week in Enbarr, and someday he is going to find out what kind of Adrestian tack-maker crafts _this_ sort of thing. The leather’s dyed a rich golden yellow, jingling with brass tack, and the cuffs are wide enough to need two straps apiece, which has stopped him from squiggling out of them at least once. _And_ they can take locks, for when she really needs to stop him.

Not that she bothers with that now. Just rounds him to strap his wrists in, rough and impatient, then buckle them together around the back of the chair. He struggles happily just to get a hard pull on his hair, and when she comes back around, it’s with a quick and toothy kiss and then a slap that makes his face heat.

“Ooo,” Hilda says. “There’re pretty blue ones in here too! Are those Dimitri’s? I bet he looks so cute in them.”

“He _blushes_ ,” Claude says recklessly. “To his ears.”

Hilda presses a hand over her heart and gasps, which looks even more ridiculous with her bodice rucked down. “Can I borrow him? I want to borrow him.”

“You’ll have to ask him very nicely,” Edelgard bites out, even as she pulls out ankle cuffs as well. Claude swallows and licks his lips, arousal pooling hot in his dick—he could stand up and walk the chair where he needed to, if not get out, without these, so with them he’s pretty nicely screwed. “He’s polite. He appreciates decorum.” She crouches to catch one leg after a half-hearted kick and cuff it to the back leg of the chair. “I can’t imagine he’d put up with _you_ very readily.”

“I can be polite!” Hilda says. “When somebody has earned it.” She leans in to kiss Claude too, long and sweet with tongue, and then gives his throat a friendly little squeeze as Edelgard fastens the other cuff, leaving his knees splayed open and his feet unable to reach the floor. “Aww, look at you, all cute and helpless.”

“Cute?” Claude smiles with teeth, and gives a hard reflexive twist of his wrists in the cuffs. “Come down here and say that again, dearest wife of mine.”

“Mmm.” She boops his nose, yanks her hand out of the way of his retaliatory snap. “Nope! _You_ are being punished for being a busybody.” She reaches lower, scraping nails idly over his chest, rucking up his own shirt to bare his belly—she still has one breast hanging out, and her ponytail sliding over it is really very distracting, and he can’t quite reach it with his tongue—

He sees Edelgard’s eyes hardening where she stands beside Hilda, and grins, because he knows it’s coming a whole five seconds before she grabs a fistful of pink hair and _pulls_ , yanking her backwards.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this that easily,” she hisses into Hilda’s ear. “Your Majesty.”

“Oooh, call me that again,” Hilda squeaks, barely thrown off balance. Edelgard’s other hand slips around, squeezing her bare breast so hard it billows between her fingers. “Oww,” she says, bucking her hips against thin air. “Claude, your evil conquering girlfriend is being mean, stop her.”

“She’s not evil, she’s just misunderstood,” Claude says, and the glare Edelgard shoots him at _that_ is glorious. The heavy spank, though, is landing on Hilda’s muscle-packed ass, and Claude gets a _very_ nice view of her startled yelp. “Also how I am supposed to stop her? I’m all cute and helpless.” He wiggles and bats his eyelashes. “Being punished. You know how it is.”

“Evil, is it?” Edelgard says, keeping her voice brisk and professional, and pulls off one crimson glove with her teeth. She slides her bare hand down Hilda’s belly to start shoving skirts up and aside, taking advantage of the deep slit Hilda likes in her swishier court dresses. Claude can tell when she’s found her mark amidst the glittering layers by Hilda’s indignant little gasp, the way her mouth falls open. “And what’s this, then? Your anger? Your contempt?” A lush gasp from Hilda’s pink-bitten lips, a quiver like Edelgard’s found her clit. “Dripping with contempt—isn’t that something people say?”

“Y-eah,” Hilda squeaks, with a raw little hitch in her breath as Edelgard does something under there. Claude, entranced, feels his blood draining south. “What, you’re not?” Hilda says, a little late. “Don’t pretend you aren’t into this too.” She squirms, trying to reach behind her to find Edelgard’s cunt in return, and they struggle for a bit until Edelgard lets go of her hair to twist one of her arms up instead.

“That,” Edelgard bites out, and does something with the hand up Hilda’s skirt, “is none of your concern.” Hilda’s gasp drops an octave—she’s _definitely_ fingering her.

“She likes it deep,” Claude says helpfully. “Fast in, slow out, you can really drive her nuts that way. Oh, and give her some hickies, she really liked mine.”

“Traitor!” Hilda manages to get a leg out to kick him in the shin, and he cackles.

“You’re _soaked_ ,” Edelgard hisses. “All that posturing to cover up the fact that you just want me to fuck youand you’re not woman enough to admit it, is that it?”

Claude feels his eyes widen. _Damn_ , Hilda’s got her going. There’s a wildness he almost never sees in Edelgard, tightly controlled as she is, and it makes his heart pound to watch—it’s delightful. Even _he’s_ never dragged this kind of filth out of her.

“That’s so _complicated_.” Hilda rolls her eyes. “Claude, look, she’s making this complicated.”

“Hilda.” Claude quirks his eyebrows. “My sweet summer flower, my quartz-eyed darling—”

“You forgot delicaaahhhte,” Hilda gasps out as Edelgard shoves her fingers up into her hard enough to lift her to to her toes.

“—full of schemes and secrets and sexy, sexy complications—”

“I just—” Hilda’s voice frays out on a moan as Edelgard thrusts harder with a growl, “hate her, Cla-aahhh-ude, it isn’t—auuhhh fuck you—that deep.”

“ _She’s_ deep,” says Claude appreciatively, and Edelgard gives him a withering look.

“Don’t make me gag you,” she says, yanked on Hilda’s arm to arch her back at an angle that makes her tits bounce _very_ nicely as she fingers her.

“Does he—make funny noi—ses when you—do that,” Hilda manages, voice breaking on every thrust.

“Not as funny as you’re making right now,” Claude says promptly.

“Fu—uhhck you—why did I—marry you again—?”

“Because I made you queen?”

“Enough,” Edelgard snaps, and yanks her fingers out of Hilda’s cunt, making her whine and chase them with her hips. She shoves them into Claude’s mouth in turn, deep enough to make him gag, filling his nose with familiar musk. “Clean them.” He moans, contact-hungry, and laves them well with his tongue, licking off every drop of Hilda.

Edelgard pulls them out, wipes her spit-clean hand on her trouser leg, and dips into her bag. The gag, a leather-wrapped ball that matches the rest of his gear, is hardly a surprise at this point—really, he’s shocked it’s taken her this long. “Oooh,” Hilda says, only a little scattered, and reaches out to pinch his lip. “You’re in trouble now.”

“But am I in more trouble than yo—ahhn.” Edelgard takes the opportunity to shove the thing in, dragging his head down to buckle it tight. Hilda really does have her riled up—she’s harsher than usual even with him, less playful, which is pretty hot. Not that her playful side isn’t smoking too, but this is a new edge and it’s interesting.

He wonders—a little late as she tugs his head hard by the strap of his gag—if it’s good for her, this kind of vibe. But there’s not much he can do about that now, is there? Gotta trust that she’s handling herself.

He isn’t sure what she sees in her eyes, but she bends down to give his hair a quick kiss in passing, and he grunts twice through his gag, short and sharp. Her eyes widen a little, and she tilts her head in an achingly familiar way, and then answers with two taps against his ear. _I’m fine._

Then she turns and grabs Hilda by the nipple. So yeah, okay, he’ll trust her. “Let me reassure you pair of brats,” Edelgard says, twisting one tiny bit at a time until she finds the point where Hilda wails. “That you are both very much in trouble.”

She lets go, taking advantage of Hilda’s quick and gasping recovery to dip into the bag again.

Claude whines into his gag when he sees what she has in her hand, and bucks against the cuffs, because gods, he’s practically got a conditioned reaction of scared-and-horny to that little buzzing orb by now. Edelgard gives it a few gentle shakes, stirring it into life at a relatively low setting, and stuffs it down the front of his pants. “Squirm for us,” she says, low and deadly into his ear, and settles it over his dick.

And, oh, he squirms. The gag’s knocking him off-balance—it’s easy to ignore the whole tied to a chair thing when he can just run his mouth like usual, but now he’s starting to really _feel_ how stuck he is. There’s not much pressure on the orb, and he’s going to have a hard time grinding down on it where he is—just a relentless tease, and he whines, pulls on all his bonds.

“If you come without permission,” Edelgard says, patting his cheek over the strap, “I’ll blindfold you.”

He _really_ whines at that, practically a Hilda impression. Sure, they’d sound sexy, he was behind a curtain to start with and couldn’t see anything, but if he _can_ watch them fuck all angry-hot—well. He knows Edelgard too well to think it’s an empty threat. Good thing she left it low. This isn’t going to be easy.

“Now— _you_ ,” she says, rounding on Hilda, and then stopping mid-sentence.

“Me?” Hilda says, all sweet and innocent, and—gods, of _course_ she has a hand between her legs, right where Edelgard had been. Claude laughs, garbled, because he may be all cute and helpless and probably going to go insane from the orb teasing his dick, but Hilda’s oncoming doom is going to be _spectacular._

“Are you,” Edelgard breathes, soft like a stormcloud, “ _actually_.”

“What? You were busy.”

“Take off anything you care about,” Edelgard says, in the flat kind of voice that would make Claude _heek_ by now if it was pointed at him.

“Like. Now? You’re not going to peel it off and ravish me like I deserve for being so patient?”

Edelgard and Claude trade a single, bare glance—and he can’t exactly grin around a gag, but it does reach his eyes—before she grabs the front of his plain shirt and pulls, ripping it open with a hiss of frayed thread. “Oh, I’ll remove it,” she says, tossing the torn piece she’s holding at Hilda. “You won’t get it back.”

Hilda’s eyes widen, and she mouthes _hot_ , but doesn’t quite voice it. Because that would involve admitting how into Edelgard she is, Claude thinks, and can’t stop sort-of-grinning even if it makes him drool more. They’re _adorable_.

“Ugh,” is what Hilda does say. “If you’re going to be like _that_ …”

Edelgard watches with tremendous patience as Hilda makes a show of the most grudging striptease Claude’s ever seen. Where by patience he mostly means pulling his hair in demanding handfuls to keep herself in check as he moans and squirms on the orb. She picks off her glittering finery and stops at a lacy little set of smallclothes, the chemise already rucked down and the underwear wet and askew. “You’re going to owe me a pair, you know,” she says, faking a yawn.

“Am I,” says Edelgard, and almost gently pulls her hands out of Claude’s hair. “Signal like he does if you actually need to,” she says, all barely restrained wrath. “Since you’re such a whiner.”

Hilda blinks once. And sticks out her tongue.

Edelgard lunges. Hilda’s little chemise is gone almost before he Claude follow what’s happening, a scuffling blur that ends up with Hilda flung onto the bed, yelping and kicking. “Here,” she says, and reaches over the edge to get a hank of rope from the bag. “Let me replace them.”

The orb shifts just a little in Claude’s pants, pressing harder against his dick, and he gives a jittery groan, and thinks of ice down his pants instead, and watches Edelgard tie up his wife. It’s quick, a little rough, probably not her most artistic work ever, but the messiness is hot and the way she’s wrapping tight around Hilda’s boobs, squeezing them up into snug swollen globes, is even hotter.

“Wow, that’s, okay that’s a look,” Hilda’s saying, pouting down at herself. “Not really a _replacement_ —ow!” That, of course, is for Edelgard smacking one of her tied-up tits. It’s light, but from the flush on Hilda’s face, it might hurt for real with them bound that. Claude files that away for later and starts figeting around behind him, feeling for a buckle, even as he drinks it all in and tries gamely to ignore the orb.

“I should,” Edelgard says, cinching a rope tight in a way that jerks Hilda back and forth a little, “be clear. I am going to go easy on you. Far easier than you deserve. Not out of any lack of desire or capability.” She pinches a nipple, hard, and Hilda gets halfway through a moan, then bites her lip, like she’s decided she wants to play hard to get. “But because Claude is a dear friend of mine, and he’d be annoyed if I broke you.”

“Like you _could_ break me,” Hilda says, winning herself another smack to her bound breasts. They _bounce_ , differently than normal, it’s really something. Edelgard goes back to quickly wrapping up her wrists, tying them behind her, and Hilda pouts and strains.

“Whatever I hold back from you, I’ll take out on your husband,” Edelgard goes on.

“Whaa ih _I_ oo,” Claude says, indignant.

Edelgard—who is, of course, fluent in gagged mumbles—shoots him a look. “You are—what would be the term? A foul enabler?”

Claude laughs through his gag, wiggles at an unwelcome spike of raw pleasure running through him. “Do I get to watch that?” Hilda asks, even as Edelgard ties off the rope.

“If you’re awake,” she says, dismissive, and tears away Hilda’s underwear.

Hilda’s eyes go hazy for a moment and she cants her hips forward with a gusty sigh, but of course what she says is, “You really think you can knock me out if you go _easy_ on me? Ugh, Claude, she’s so cocky.”

Claude shrugs, because really, what did she expect?

“I don’t think he’s going to be much help to you, Your Majesty,” Edelgard says, and grinds the heel of her hand between Hilda’s legs, just quick enough to tease.

“I can still talk at him, it’s most of what he’s good for anyway.”

“You have provoked me.” Edelgard leans down for another hank of rope. “With absolutely no subtlety whatsoever. From your reputation—”

“What reputation?” Hilda says with a giggle.

“I expected—”

Claude makes a loud and wild moan, bucking, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s two seconds from coming and trying to hold it back. Barely managing. Really it’s more like ten seconds from coming, but whatever, ten seconds he can keep stretching out. They both turn to appreciate it long enough for him to shoot Edelgard a look that he can only hope translates.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Hilda says brightly, and he isn’t sure whether he means his squirming suffering or his distraction.

“And yet,” Edelgard restarts, “you keep trying to weasel out of it and redirect me at your husband.” She smacks Hilda’s ass again, then pulls up another hank of rope. “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, but I have no interest in it.” She uncoils it and loops one end around Hilda’s waist, pulling it snug as she wriggles, then tosses the length between her legs where she’s more-or-less kneeling up on the bed.

 _Oh, you’re in for it_ , Claude thinks, and whines a little as he fights off another rushing of pleasure, holding back the edge. Fuck, this isn’t going to be easy. But poor dear Hilda isn’t having it easy either, not when Edelgard comes around to pull that length up between her legs and thread it under the front of her new waistband. She wraps the end twice around one palm and tugs, _almost_ gently, and Hilda squeaks as the rope digs in, grinding up unyielding against her clit. And she catches Hilda’s jaw in her other hand, gagging her with two fingers.

“So here’s how it’ll go.” They’re eye to eye, now, Edelgard staring Hilda down from a close heated distance, holding down her tongue as she whimpers in indignation. “I’m going to spank you until you scream. A _real_ scream. I won’t believe it until you convince Claude. And then.” She gives a tug to the crotch rope. “You will stop pretending this is anything other than what it is and beg me to fuck you.”

“Wha if,” Hilda starts as soon as she lets up on her tongue, “I just beg you now.”

Edelgard shoves her fingers back in, deeper, and Hilda makes the cutest little choking noise. “You aren’t getting out of your spanking that easily. And do understand that you’ll have to convince me that your begging is real too.”

Hilda does the _that’s not fair_ whine, perfectly on pitch, even with Edelgard’s fingers shoved into the back of her throat.

“Now. Come on.” Edelgard jerks her forward using the crotch rope as a leash. Claude winces a little in gleeful sympathy—she’d done the same to him once, it had sucked gloriously—and then makes a strangled noise as he fights back the edge. Again. He’s really starting to sweat, and there’s a whole spanking and fucking to go, and he doesn’t want to miss a moment. Damn it—well, there’s _a_ buckle, at least, finally, he can at least get started on that.

Edelgard drags Hilda off the bed right up in front of Claude’s chair, beautiful muscly legs shaking just a little as she’s manhandled by crotch rope and bound breasts, and bends her over by the hair. “You can take her weight, I assume,” she tosses off at Claude.

“O eah,” he says, nodding, and there’s Hilda shoved up against him, bent over with her tied-up boobs pressed against his chest and her chin on his shoulder. She winces at the pressure on her tits, tries to squirm away, but Edelgard has a firm grip on the back of the ropes wrapped round her chest, and holds her snug even as she kicks one leg.

“Scream for me,” Edelgard growls in Hilda’s ear, and there’s a wild light in her eyes. All three so close they can feel each other’s breath. Her hand comes down, a ringing smack, and Hilda, promptly, screams, fake as hell.

Claude gives a low growl of his own, appreciative. This close, if he turns his head, he can see Hilda’s cheek flushing, her eyes rolling back in her head. It’s a cunning little play on Edelgard’s part: she’d hide less of herself from Claude. No doubt she’ll catch her when she least expects it, spin her around to see her all come undone. Of course, it being sexy as hell is so not helping his own predicament. Each slap, each shriek, feels like a stab of heat in his belly, driving him closer to the edge. At least Hilda murdering his eardrums is painful enough to help hold him back.

“Oww ow ow ow, come on, you’re just being _mean_ , you said you’d stop when I was screaming, I’m screaming—”

Claude shakes his head, laughing through his gag.

“You’re terrible,” Hilda groans, and bites his shoulder, hard.

“Ou _rying_ oo ge ee lineolih?” Claude asks, mock-indignant.

“Oh, but then I can’t see your cute pleading eyes over your gag,” Hilda says, in a rush between blows, and then yelps as she takes the other—not a performative scream, she’s too distracted. “You’ll just— _owww_ ow ow why are you so _mean?_ —have to not come.”

“I don’t know why you expect him to behave when you’re incapable of it,” Edelgard says, and the tone of her slaps changes slightly—upper thighs, maybe? Hilda’s whines of pain are getting realer.

“Well, he’s all— _augh_ —gooshy for you, I just think you’re a bitch—” That gets her the hardest smack yet, and it’s almost a shout. Not really a scream though, far as Claude’s concerned.

“It’s.” Edelgard bites out between blows, each one strong enough to jolt Hilda full-body. “Been. Said. _Scream._ ”

Hilda wails. Claude shakes his head. “What,” Hilda wheezes, “you— _eeegghhu_ —getting tired?”

“I could do.” Smack. “This.” Smack. “All.” Smack. “Day.” A hard enough smack that Hilda makes a piercing noise through clenched teeth, kicks one foot, then the other, shakes her head violently. Claude has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, let go of the buckle he’s working at to dig fingernails into his palms—roundtable meetings, choir practice, the smell outside the fish butcheries of Derdriu, anything unsexy, _anything_ —at least his desperate whine is probably lost in Hilda’s noises. Her tied-up boobs are cool and uncannily firm. She’s making little hitchy whimpers on every breath, squirming against him. Roundtable meetings. _Fuck._

Edelgard’s hand speeds up, blows coming fast enough that Hilda can’t talk, and then—then she screams, raw and from the gut, like it’s torn from her.

Edelgard looks to Claude—probably doing that thing where she’s dragging nails over the sore spots, because Hilda’s groaning and shivering—and he nods, one quirk of his eyebrows, and then has to squeeze his eyes shut again with a strangled cry that carries perfectly well this time.

Edelgard pats him on the cheek, not gently, and yanks Hilda back to her feet. “There you go.” Spins her to face her, getting a grip on the crotch rope again and shoving her thumb over her tongue. “A little honestly from you, finally. Was that so hard?”

Hilda’s brow crumples in a pout, and she looks like she’d be sticking her tongue out if she could. “ _Duh_ ,” she says, when Edelgard lets her speak, “yes, that _hurt_ , what do you expect? Of course it was hard.”

“I see.” Edelgard lets her jaw go entirely. “Well, then I can’t imagine this will be easier for you either.” She yanks the rope, dragging Hilda’s hips forward. “ _Beg._ ”

“Buuuuut.” Hilda, pink-cheeked, red-assed, and somehow determined to make this _very_ hard on herself, tosses her head with a truly epic pout.

“But?” Edelgard prompts sharply, and tweaks a swollen nipple, making her buck and drag that rope even harder against her clit.

“I _know_ you want to fuck me.” Gods help her, she is batting her eyelashes. “You were doing it so nicely earlier! I could’ve come, like, right then if _somebody_ hadn’t gone and distracted you.” She rolls her eyes at Claude.

“Ouu saahe ih,” Claude points out, because who had kept talking to the audience again?

Edelgard gives Claude another slap, lazy, barely taking her eyes off Hilda, and that’s an odd roil of _something_ in his gut. Might be a bad something if he wasn’t quite sure he was next in her crosshairs, but he is, so it’s—oddly delightful, this crawling nothingness? Safe, like the fear of her hand at his throat or the shame of bowing to her. Yeah. He can deal with this.

“But come on,” Hilda continues, “don’t you want to just wreck me? I’m right here, all tied up for you…”

“Oh, I do.” Tug on the rope, twist to one nipple, twist to the other, and there’s a savage light in her smile. “That’s why you’re going to beg.”

They’re standing right in front of Claude’s chair, in the narrow gap between his knees and the best, so he’s looking up at them both, and somewhere around then he realizes—the orb’s slipped, fallen back a little. It’s riding against his entrance, but there’s not much vibration on his dick anymore. He might actually make it. He bites hard into his gag, squeezing his eyes shut in relief, hiding it, and hopes to fuck Edelgard doesn’t notice.

Which she’s unlikely to, really. She’s thoroughly distracted by his very pretty, very tied up wife, dancing needily on that rope. Distracted enough to finger-fuck her mouth a little, hold her lip down so a little bit of shine gets down her chin and drops onto her bound breasts, and Claude can only assume she’s imagining shoving a gag in there and leaving her to drool all over herself, which Hilda would _hate_ , and that’s obviously the vibe here, so hey. He can _smell_ her here, see the shine down her bare thighs as well around that rapidly wetting rope, and he’s so relieved the orb had slipped, because that might have broken him. Instead he just shudders with arousal, wrenches his wrists around to pick at that buckle again.

“Soooo,” Hilda starts, “pretty please?”

“For real.” Edelgard yanks hard, enough to drag Hilda onto her tip-toes, scrabbling for balance with her arms bound. “You can feel that rope digging in, can’t you?” She slips her free hand down to trace around it, teasingly light. “Want me to take it away and fuck you? Want me to stop crushing your poor little clit?” _Claude’s_ the one who makes a strangled noise at that—gods, seeing Edelgard like this is amazing. “Stop faking and show me your need.”

“And,” Hilda gasps, squirming. “What if—I don’t?”

“Then you’ll be the one tied down, all hot and needy and untouched, while I wreck your husband and then send you out the door.” Nipple twist. “Completely.” Nipple twist. “Unfulfilled.”

“Ruuude,” Hilda whines.

“Like you can talk.”

Claude quivers silently in delight, slowly working that one strap free—the lower of the two straps on his left cuff. Might not be able to get the others even if he gets this one loose, and Edelgard will be pissed if she finds out, but well, he can’t be _too_ out-bratted by his wife, he’s obliged to try.

Hilda waits for another round of torment, then lets her voice go all cracked and breathy. “Please…please stop hurting me and fuck me…I’m a delicate flower, I need you in me now…”

Edelgard looks over to Claude, just as she had for the spanking, and he stills his fingers and shakes his head decisively. Hilda glowers at him.

“Stop acting,” Edelgard snaps.

“Then _fuck me_ ,” Hilda snaps back, grinding one heel into the ground and leaning into her, and there’s an edge of raw rage in her voice that Claude’s never heard outside of battle before. Even Edelgard seems a little taken aback. “Jam your stupid warmongering bitch fingers up there and _fuck me_.”

Edelgard slaps her across the face. Once. Hard.

Claude jolts in his cuffs with a raw noise of alarm. _Not in the faaaace_ , she’d told him once. Hilda’s frozen, eyes wide, breath coming fast and shallow, something between horror and rage in her eyes.

“Fuck. Me.” It’s choked out, thick with rage and humiliation. Her cheek’s burning pinker where she’d struck. “Why are you so fucking hot, why do I like you, why are you _like this?!_ Why do I look at you and want to throw myself against you? That’s _work!_ Fuck you and your stupid pretty eyes and your stupid sexy glare, I hate you, fuck me.” She heaves a breath, presses herself right up against her even if it means squishing her boobs, presses her forehead against hers, and seethes. “Fuck. Me. _Please_.”

Edelgard’s still for a moment, stunned.

Then she loosens her grip on the rope in her hand, slides it loose of the waistband, and peels it out of Hilda’s cunt, letting it fall to the floor with a patter. Hilda makes one little creak of relief through clenched teeth. Their eyes are still locked; they’re lost in each other, and Claude is lost in them, entranced. Edelgard shoves her onto the bed, down on her back with her legs fallen wide and her angry pink cunt open to the world. To Claude, who feels his mouth water, the inevitable slide of it down to soak his beard.

“Then take it,” Edelgard hisses, and shoves three fingers home without mercy. Hilda yelps in relief, arches her hips in a way that makes her swollen tits bounce, and Edelgard latches her other hand into her thigh, nails deep, pinning her open. She goes fast and hard right out the gate, deep as she can with her small hands—fast enough that Claude might be wailing for mercy, but Hilda just sings her pleasure with rage in her gut. Her broad little bare foot kicks and twists in the air, and there’s that rising wail that means she’s close—so very fast, so worked up—

She comes, fast and hard, belly clenching, toes curling, and there’s a white sheen on Edelgard’s fingers. “You’ve got more in you,” she growls, twisting her whole hand, barely letting up after her orgasm. “Needy girl.” Claude realizes she’s folding in her pinkie, quivers as he sees Hilda spread open around her. “Give it up. You want to throw yourself against me? You want to _test_ me?”

“Fu-uuhh-hh-ck yooh-uuuh,” Hilda wails.

“Oh no,” Edelgard says. “This is all yours.” Her fingers sink deeper, knuckles stretching her wide. Hilda tenses with a choked little noise, and Edelgard works her, in and out, opening her up. “You asked for it. You _begged_ for it. Not nicely, we’re going to have to work on that, but you did do exactly what I told you to—”

“ _Weh_ ,” Hilda says to that.

“—so I suppose we can call that good.” Hilda makes a noise like an angry cat. “What?” Edelgard says crispy. “You don’t want to be good for me? Too bad. You were.”

Hilda howls in rage and grinds down, driving her hand knuckle-deep, and Edelgard answers with a hard thrust. Fast in, slow out, just like he’d said. Claude feels heat spreading through his body, realizes he’s trembling a little, a sympathetic resonance, and he gives up his own shaky gasps as Edelgard fucks another screaming orgasm out of his wife. _Fuck_ is he glad the orb slipped—he’d be gone by now, so far gone, he can barely even focus on undoing a buckle—

Edelgard’s still for a moment, like she’s deciding something, and then reaches to scrabble in the bag, and Claude groans and struggles in his cuffs, because gods, why is he tied down now? Why can’t he hand his girlfriend the Emperor of Adrestia lube so that she can _fist_ his wife the Queen of Almyra? Why is he missing this golden opportunity?

Edelgard gets her own lube and Claude sags in his cuffs and pants along for the ride.

“Wha,” Hilda starts to say, and Edelgard gives a hard thrust to discombobulate her even as she fiddles the thing open one-handed to get herself all slippery. “You’re—you’re not—oh fuck—”

“Oh, yes,” Edelgard growls. “You wanted me to fuck you? I am very much going to fuck you.”

She’d fisted Dimitri once, sprawled over pillows deep in a haze of surrender, back red from a soft leather flogger, mouth folded over Claude’s dick like it was all he knew in the world as she worked him open so very gently, tender adoration in her eyes as he gave himself over, every big boneless inch of him. It had taken forever, long enough for Claude to get a little bored and start drawing finger-patterns on his back and murmuring filth, at least until he started making these feather-soft, gut-deep little noises and _shaking_ , transported, as Edelgard slid home.

This—this is entirely different. Edelgard drags bright red lines down Hilda’s thick pale thigh and presses in as deep as she can, and Claude watches Hilda’s cunt swallow the hard line of her knuckles, again, again. She wrings out another orgasm before she goes deeper, teasing her thumb, then slowly folding it in as Hilda makes vague, wrecked little noises, melted into the mattress, chest heaving, red and dripping. Claude isn’t sure how long it takes, and even just against his hole the orb is slowly driving him trembling mad, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except the raw groan Hilda makes as Edelgard’s thumb disappears inside her.

“Fuck, fuck, oh goddess.” Hilda squirms half-heartedly, stills as Edelgard splits her open. “Yes, yes, I can take it, yes, give it to me, I hate you, come on…” It’s nonsense. Edelgard almost seems to be tuning it out, except her whole self is hunched over Hilda, predatory, practically vibrating with focus as she twists and seeks surrender. And finally slides home to the wrist, pulling noises out of Hilda like Claude’s never heard, wild and raw.

“There you go,” Edelgard says, and twists her wrist, slowly, one way, the other way, stirring up groans and shudders. “Greedy girl.” Then a pump of her elbow, testing—not a huge motion, but it doesn’t really have to be, does it? Hilda jolts with a wail.

“Stoh-h-h-p,” she stutters, and Edelgard freezes for a split second. “Ho-hh-lding back…”

Edelgard snarls, audibly, and starts fucking her, short hard little thrusts, and Hilda screams. Straight-up screams. Claude isn’t sure he’s breathing. Edelgard lets go of her thigh, rearranges herself a little—her body’s blocking most of Claude’s view now, but her other hand’s on Hilda’s clit, he’s pretty sure, rubbing hard enough to shake her elbow—

Hilda comes like it’s a full-body seizure, one leg kicking hard against Edelgard’s shoulder. She keeps working her, not letting up, and Hilda is screaming curses in two languages, and Claude keeps wondering if she’s going to cry for mercy—

“One more,” Edelgard says. “One more, _Your Majesty_.” Hilda wails through gnashed teeth. “You want me to conquer you, well, I’m taking _this_.”

Claude’s biting his gag, he realizes, so hard his teeth hurt.

One more crests like thunder, and Hilda goes completely rigid, legs around Edelgard like a vise, a high scream that lasts longer than it seems like there’s breath in her.

Edelgard goes still. Mostly. Her elbows are moving a little, softly, and Hilda’s legs go limp along with the rest of her. Claude forces his jaw to loosen, forces himself to breathe. He’s shaking against the low-sitting orb, somewhere raw and oversensitized and sideways from orgasm. He almost misses the two soft taps Edelgard makes on Hilda’s thigh, wonders for a moment why his wife is blowing a double raspberry.

The imperial scarlet back moves a little, giving him a slightly better view as Edelgard slowly, _gently_ works her hand back out. Hilda’s cunt is red and wet—she must have squirted, Edelgard’s sleeve is dark to the elbow, and Claude wonders vaguely if its salvageable. She must have brought other outfits. Her problem. Hilda’s clinging to her, twitching as she’s gradually left empty.

Edelgard catches her own breath, smoothes her palm over Hilda’s stomach as she shivers, and then rolls her on her side. A few tugs free her wrists; a few more let the rope fall off from around her reddened breasts, and Hilda groans in muzzy relief.

“Here,” Edelgard says, and lifts her bodily off the bed to carry her, feet dangling, and drape her piggyback over Claude.

“Mmm, Claude,” Hilda mumbles, and wraps her arounds around him, nuzzling into his hair. “Oww, tiddy.” He turns to rub his cheek against her, and she giggles vaguely. “Eww, drooly.” Not that it stops her.

Edelgard takes the time to wipe her hand, stretch, and give the pair of them a satisfied look over. Then she walks up and feels down the front of Claude’s pants to find the out-of-place orb. “Ah, _that’s_ why you were quieter than I expected. Did you do that on purpose, you scamp?”

Claude shakes his head, trying not to dislodge Hilda, who whines and holds on tighter.

Edelgard bends next to his ear as she shakes the orb, jarring it up to a higher setting. “I’ll just leave her on you for now?” she murmurs.

He nods, makes some soft grateful noise—and then goes rigid as she shoves the thing back down against his dick, hard. He’s oversensitized already, on the edge for fuck knows how long, and he thrashes hard in his cuffs, mangled filthy shouts, as she scrapes nails over his chest, as Hilda bestirs herself to join in, one-handed, with her far longer and pointier nails—

He comes, rattling hard, with a muffled yell.

The aftershocks leave him dizzy, sagging in the chair, panting for air. Edelgard’s kind enough to take the orb away, and he groans in relief, feeling phantom buzzing between his legs. She unbuckles the gag next, pulling it out, and Claude wiggles his tongue and kisses her hand as it goes by.

“We have _got_ to get one of those,” Hilda mumbles.

Edelgard pats her head. “You’ll probably never leave your room again if you have one, greedy girl.”

Claude laughs, a little wet, working his jaw, as Hilda blows a lazy raspberry. “So you’ll give her one as diplomatic espionage, is that it? Take out my queen in one move?”

“I just might.” Edelgard sets the gag aside, runs a hand through Claude’s hair, and tugs. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet, little spy.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to be.” He grins, a little dopey—maybe Hilda’s rubbing off on him. Mm, Hilda rubbing off on him, a nice thought. At least their schedule is more open tomorrow, since they’re mostly waiting on Dimitri at this point. “Don’t wear yourself out though. You can take a raincheck.”

Her eyes spark and she slaps him across the face, almost fondly. “You two really are a pair.”

“She really worked you up, huh.” He answers that spark with a grin.

Edelgard crouches, making quick work of the buckles holding him to the chair, though leaving his cuffs. He rolls his shoulders, stretches out his arms, and rearranges Hilda so he can wrap her up. Edelgard can deal—and in fact she seems unsurprised, and simply clips his wrists back together behind Hilda’s back. Hilda makes a vaguely disgruntled noise, but doesn’t let go. Edelgard wrangles them both onto the bed, and they tumble together, and she yanks his pants off along the way, arranges him so she has easy access to his ass while still letting him snuggle Hilda.

“Now you.” She scrapes nails along his thigh contemplatively. “ _You_.” She dips away for a moment, returns with the velvet-lined blindfold in one hand and one of her dicks in the other. Perhaps the _fattest_ of her dicks, short enough to fit anywhere it might need to go, but bracingly wide, and hard ceramic so it’s utterly impossible to ignore.

“Macuil’s tits, you were holding out on me,” Hilda mumbles when she sees it.

“Pick a hole,” Edelgard says, flat and absolute, and some of that savage energy from before is still cracking through her. Oh, he’s in for a wild ride.

“For what?” He licks his lips. “For that?”

“For me to tie this into.” She gives a light smack square over his dick, and he moans unbidden. “While I hurt you and have you fuck me blind, since you’ve seen enough, little spy.”

He contemplates it, but really, that orb had done its job, and he’s aching for something against his sensitive spots, even something oversized. “Front. Also going to have to be one of yours for fucking. Unless somebody’s going back to my room.”

She tilts her head. “Will that be odd for you?”

A little, maybe, but fuck running off for his own dicks now, and it’s not like he’ll see it anyway. “Nah.” He jerks his chin in Hilda’s direction, and Edelgard nods, just a hint of kindness in her eyes, and pats his cheek, not gently.

“Good. Because you’re not going anywhere.”

Velvet-lined leather molds over his eyes, buckled snug, and the world falls into darkness.

* * *

“Ohhhh,” Hilda moans softly into her pillow as the bells ring next morning. “Goddess. My ass.”

Edelgard had straight-up carried Claude back to the royal suite when they were done, draped over her back and moaning softly, with Hilda flopping along the wall beside them whining about why _she_ wasn’t being carried. Edelgard had tucked them in, pulled Hilda’s hair, kissed Claude’s forehead, and tottered back to her own room. He—thinks. He’s pretty sure.

“You started it,” Claude mumbles.

“If that,” she says slowly, “was going easy, I have got to get the full experience.”

Claude rolls over and flops an arm across her with a laugh. “You might just get it, too. I think she liked you. In a weird sort of way.

Edelgard, curled into a little ball on Claude’s other side, picks her head up with one small grunt like a disgruntled cat. “Don’t get cocky.”

Claude yelps.

Hilda gives one scattered squeak, then groans and grabs a fistful of pillow. “But _why_ though.”

**Author's Note:**

> I [tweet](https://twitter.com/letterblade).


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